


Anew

by Anon_E_Miss



Series: Becoming [1]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Just my usual bullshit, M/M, Mental Illness, Minor Violence, PTSD, Past Mention of Violence, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:29:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 19,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23742319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anon_E_Miss/pseuds/Anon_E_Miss
Summary: For Prowl Week, a series of shorts following Prowl, Two Bit the service cyber-dog, little bitty Smokescreen, and Jazz as Prowl finds a new path after suffering a horrific trauma.
Relationships: Jazz/Prowl
Series: Becoming [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1985419
Comments: 183
Kudos: 191
Collections: Prowl Week





	1. Crash

Two Bit stood in front of Prowl and whined. The Praxian stopped mid step as the cyber-dog blocked his path and whined again. In that pause, Prowl felt the racing of his spark, the anxiety bubbling up in his throat, and the throbbing in his helm. He wobbled. It was too hard to think. Prowl could not put down the building crash, the chance had come and gone. When Two Bit whined again, Prowl barely heard it over the thrum of his systems. Blinding he grabbed the handle on Two Bit’s vest and his service mechanimal led him to safety. Prowl did not see where they stopped but he slid down to the ground before his legs could collapse out from under him, though it was a near thing. He felt Two Bit standing over him as the crash tore through his systems, and he fell offline.

“Are ya okay?”

Prowl did not know the voice. He could not lift his helm, or even online his optics. His frame felt weighed down, like he was drowning in tar. Everything hurt. It was normal. This was normal. He had crashed. Two Bit had been trying to warn him since before they had reached the sparkling centre but Prowl had been in such a hurry he had not listen, and he had missed the chance to try and avert the crash. For nothing, as always for nothing. Prowl was definitely late for the exam now. Two Bit whined. He was laying over Prowl, keeping him safe. Before he managed to online his optics Prowl patted the mechanimal’s large helm. Stroking his service mechanimal helped to guide Prowl out of the fugue and when he onlined his optics he saw a stranger kneeling at his side, field brimming with concern. Shame filled Prowl’s in response.

“Hey, it’s okay,” the stranger said. He was Polihexain. There was no missing the visor and audial horns. He was... not entirely a stranger. He was a classmate, not in the political sciences course Prowl was missing, but in his next class, history. Prowl did not know his designation. He did not socialize with his classmates.

“Oof,” Two Bit barked. It was not aggressive, but it was a warning. His classmate keeps his servos to himself.

“Do ya need me to call EMS?”

“No,” Prowl forced his vocalizer online and the glyph came out in a harsh rasp. “I do not need medical attention. I crashed. I... have a glitch. They happen.”

“I understand. My origin’s got a glitch. He don’t crash but he has episodes.”

Prowl relaxed. The mech’s voice was kind. The lack of judgment, or pity was a relief. Mechanisms had always treated him differently. Contempt or dismissal, Prowl had borne both for so long the familiarity had become easy. He had been the odd mechling, the odd mech. The one that glitched if you startled him just right. His young classmates had always come up with new ways to try and figure out how to make him crash. There had been little point in complaining to teachers. All they had ever said was: ignore them and they’ll stop. That had been a lie. Those personalities had followed him into the Academy, and then into the enforcers. Except by adulthood Prowl’s crashes had been a rarity. Oh, he had still had the glitch, and he had still had episodes but actual crashes had been a rare thing. The _Incident_ had changed everything. Prowl avoided thinking about it as much as he could. Remembering only scrambled his already haywire processor. He had thought just not thinking about it, burying the _Incident_ down below his firewalls would get him back into order and normalcy. But Prowl had been wrong. He had still not returned to normal. He had come to rely on a failed canine enforcer to help him just to exist. The crashes were a weekly thing now. More frequent than they had every been when he had been a mechling.

“What’s y’re designations?”

“Prowl.”

“‘M Jazz. We’re in History 334 together.”

“I have seen you in class.”

“I can help ya get home, Prowl, or get ya a transport. When ya think y’re up for movin’.”

“I need to get to class. I am missing an exam.”

“Do ya think y’ll do good on it right after crashin’?”

“No but the professor made it clear no make ups will be allowed.”

“Y’re registered wit the Centre o’ Accessibility?”

“I had to. They would not allow Two Bit to assist me otherwise.”

“Then all ya gotta do is let’m know ya crashed ‘n ask’m when ya can take the test at the Centre. All ya gotta do is say accommodations ‘n he’s gotta work wit ya or he’ll be in the smelter.”

“I am still getting used to needing accommodations.”

“Ooo oof!” Two Bit grumbled. 

Prowl stroked his big helm as his cyber-dog nudged his snout against Prowl’s face. His helm...  it would ache for a while. The pain blockers he had been prescribed knocked him on his aft and he did not dare take them knowing Smokescreen needed him. Prowl nudged his great oaf of a cyber-dog off of him, and used Two Bit’s great bulk to help himself sit up. Though his helm spun, it cleared quickly. Jazz was not wrong. Prowl was not fit to take an exam.  Let alone two. They had one in history, just the next block.  Primus he was tired. It could have been the crash, or the terrible dark-cycle he had had with Smokescreen, followed by a terrible light-cycle. Normally Smokescreen was an easy going and mischievous mechling, but occasionally he was a holy terror. He had been channelling the terror more frequently of late. Prowl leaned heavily on Two Bit and sighed.

“I need to collect my mechling. I need to go home.”

“I can help ya, or call someone for ya.”

“There is only me. I should be alright. I rarely crash twice in a mega-cycle.”

“If ya’d feel better wit an escort, I really don’t mind. But if you’re good, I can help ya up?”

“I...” Prowl started to decline but logic overruled pride. “I am not used to asking for help, or accepting it. I do not like needing it. Smokescreen attends the sparkling centre here on campus.”

“I’ll walk ya over.”

“You are not missing a class?”

“Free block. I don’t got anywhere to be.”

“But History?”

“How ‘bout ya message Professor Backfire ‘n let’m know ‘m helpin’ ya get home. If ‘m late, he’ll probably take it easy on me.”

It w ould have made more sense to message Datamine first, but Prowl did not want his classmate to be barred from taking the test. Jazz had not been wrong. Having registered with the Centre of Accessibility, Prowl had protections his classmate did not. Prowl explained the situation to their professor and requested the opportunity to take the test on a later date. The message he sent to Datamine contained a similar message, and an apology for being unable to make his request earlier, as he had been unconscious. With any luck, Prowl  would be spared any push back.  But he really did hate having to ask for the accommodation s . He hated so much how his glitch had come to cripple him.

“Rrrr,” Two Bit rumbled as Prowl stroked him. The anxiety was building again, strangling Prowl’s spark. He leaned into his service mechanimal and waited for it to pass. Two Bit nuzzled him as Prowl stroke his helm and neck and continued with his vocalizations. Those unfamiliar with the beast would think he was growling, but his great oaf of a cyber-dog purred. Or, he tried to.

“I am keeping you.”

“‘M good. Don’t rush yourself.”

Maybe it would be easier to accept for Prowl to accept his was a broken down excuse of a mech if more mechanisms were like Jazz. His classmate was patient and understanding in a way Prowl had not found outside of the rehab clinic. His own family had fluxed between impatien ce and  dismissal . Living with them had become unbearable. Because they still refused to understand that Prowl needed to have independence, they did not have his address here in Iacon. Neither had he told them which Iaconian university he was attending. That Prowl was alone was a choice he had made but the only other choice had been laying down to rust.

“I am alright,” Prowl said as the fresh wave of anxiety passed. “I should be able to stand unassisted.”

“Take my servo, if ya need it,” Jazz replied. He was on his peds in a blink. The mech could have been an athlete. Or a dancer. Prowl took the proffered servo. With Two Bit at his side, Prowl found his peds without stumbling. Though his legs creaked. He needed to get moving if he wanted the lubricants to flow properly through his limbs again.

“The sparkling centre is just down here. I did not get far.”

“Rough light-cycle?”

“And dark-cycle. Smokescreen refused to let go of my leg at drop off. Usually he is happy to play with his friends. But sometimes he can be clingy.”

“This ain’t yer first semester... I mean yer taking 3000 level history.”

“I transferred from a university in Praxus. I am sure he misses... everyone, and cannot express it in glyphs. But I needed the change.”

Prowl felt intense guilt for putting this need over Smokescreen. He reasoned, time and again that Smokescreen needed him happy and healthy but Prowl did not always trust how important his happiness really was when it came to his creation’s well being.  Smokescreen had been perfectly happy when they had lived in the family compound. Prowl’s procreators had been very involved with him, too involved for Prowl’s comforted.  They had overruled him, overstepped and overstretched. They had refused to hear him.  He had felt as if he was being pushed out of his own creation’s upbringing. When they had refused to  even listen , Prowl had run away like a youngling, leaving only a note to explain himself. They  were waiting for him to return, once he failed in his experiment at independence. Prowl would never return, not to the compound at least. It might be vorns before he returned to Praxus itself. He feared they would go to the courts and take custody of Smokescreen from him. They would tell him, they would believe it was for the best. They would be wrong. And because Prowl feared that they would do this, he did not allow them to know where he was.

“Hello Prowl,” Caretaker Sidestep said. “Were your classes cancelled.”

“I am feeling unwell and will be missing my classes this cycle. I will be taking Smokescreen home now.”

“If you’ll sign him out, I’ll grab him.”

There was no one else on the sign out sheet for Smokescreen. Most of his playmates had, if not both procreators, grandprocreators and friends. Prowl had emphasized that no one but Prowl was authorized to remove Smokescreen from the centre. Though he feared his procreators would take legal steps to seize custody of Smokescreen if they could, he did not believe they would resort to botnapping. But Prowl  did not dare trust. He had been wrong before. Two Bit sat patiently at his side as Prowl pulled out the collapsible stroller and set it up. He wished he could trust himself to carry his creation, but he did not, and he could not. Prowl had never dropped Smokescreen, but it only took one mistake. How would he live with himself if he hurt Smokescreen? No. He would use the stroller. It was just a tool. Using it did not make him less.

“Oh! Oh!” Smokescreen ran through the gate and crashed into Prowl’s legs. He looked up at Prowl with such joy. “We going home?”

“Yes, Smokescreen,” Prowl said. “Into your stroller please.”

“Snack?”

“We will have a snack and watch cartoons, does that sound good?”

“Yeah!”

Jazz was still waiting for him when Smokescreen pushed Smokescreen and stroller out the door. Two Bit walked neatly beside Prowl. Though he was careful and protective over Smokescreen, he very much treated Prowl like his job. As long as he was wearing that vest, the oaf was the most serious cyber-pup. When Prowl took it off, Two Bit would goof off with Smokescreen, and allow the mechling to crawl all over him. He was the perfect cyber-dog. Prowl trusted him not just with himself but with his creation. The enforcer’s cyber-dog trainer had called him the single most stupid beast he had ever encountered. Prowl completely agreed at times. But more often Prowl thought Two Bit was actually two smart to be trained. Certainly, Prowl had not trained him. Two Bit had taught himself how to predict Prowl’s crashes, and how to keep Prowl safe. Prowl had played no part in it, other than taking the great oaf home. And that had actually been Polaris’ idea.

“Hi!” Smokescreen chirped. “Who you?”

“Smokescreen, this is Jazz. Jazz, Smokescreen.”

“Good to meet ya, lil mech.”

“If you want to make your way to class, we will be alright.”

“I don’t mind walkin’ ya the rest o’ the way if ya’d feel safer for it.”

“If you are sure.”

Because Prowl did feel safer for it. His spark and his processor remained frayed. Just thinking of how grateful he was for Two Bit, made him think of Polaris. When the oafish pup had failed out of canine enforcer training, it had been Polaris who had suggested they adopt the cyber-dog. He had wanted Smokescreen, who had still been growing in Prowl’s forge, to have a playmate from earliest joors of his life. They had thought they had chosen well when Two Bit had immediately glued himself to Prowl’s side, and given how much Two Bit had put his helm on Prowl’s lap, they had assumed that Two Bit had already been aware of and bonded to the newling within Prowl. He was fond of Smokescreen. Two Bit treated the mechling like a cyber-puppy, with perfect gentleness. But it was Prowl he focused on. From the dark-cycle of the _In_ _cident_ on it Prowl had always been his focus.

“Are ya okay?”

“Ooo hrumf.”

“I am. I am.”

“Why not sit a klik?”

Two Bit shared Jazz’s idea and he led Prowl over to the bench, and nudge him down. Prowl wanted to go home. He waned to lay down and cuddle with his creation and his cyber-dog. The dog in question lowered his helm to Prowl’s lap and Prowl hunched over him, and tried to escape the helpless panic and dreadful guilt that came when he thought of Polaris, and that dark-cycle. His spark was pulsing in his audios, and he clung to Two Bit for dear life. Smokescreen called for him, and Prowl lifted his helm. Jazz pushed the stroller within his reach and Prowl pulled Smokescreen out and held his creation against his side. Smokescreen kissed his face, over and over.  Between the mechling and the cyber-dog, Prowl slowly recovered himself. He turned his helm and look at his classmate who was sitting patiently next to them.

“I am sorry. I am just a mess.”

“Ya don’t got anythin’ to apologize for. Could ya use some energon? I got some gels.”

“Oh. Thank you...”

“Snack?!”

“Sure, lil mech, I got enough to share.”

Prowl had not had time to fuel. He had been fighting to get Smokescreen ready, and too frazzled and tired to think. Smokescreen took the gel Jazz offered him and pushed it against Prowl’s mouth, and Prowl ate it. His creation  smiled brilliantly as he broke the gels and fed one piece to his originator, and ate one himself. When Two Bit whine, Smokescreen slipped him a piece. Prowl did not have the spark to scold either of them. The fuel may have helped, or it may have been the affection from his creation and his service mechanimal that helped Prowl regain his mental footing. Certainly his controls were far more frayed when he was run down, whether it was low fuel or low energy. The mega-cycles of pushing himself through exhaustion and hunger and breaking the case were over. He needed to do better with himself if he was going to give Smokescreen the care he deserved.

“Thank you, Jazz. You have been a great help.”

“Ain’t done anythin’ special.”

He was wrong. No one had helped Prowl like Jazz had. No one had let it be Prowl’s choice. The fact that Prowl was disabled did not mean he did not have autonomy. It did not mean he did not want a say and a choice  in his life . This was what Prowl had been unable to make his procreators understand. Their infantilizing treatment of him had been what had chased him away. Perhaps Prowl had bitten off more than he could chew, but he believed he could make a life for himself and his creation. He could be more than  broken  shell . Prowl thought he would not resist or resent help so much if it  was not been forced down his throat so often, and if his denials  were respected.  Jazz left the final say to Prowl and it made it all the easier for Prowl to accept the help.

His classmate walked him to his habsuite, and went on his way. Prowl did not think he could thank Jazz enough, not so much for his help, but for how he had chosen to offer it.  Before their next class, Prowl would buy him a box of energon goodies, and have Smokescreen decorate a card for him. Not right now, however. While he  was already up , Prowl grabbed energon and gels from his own stock and set them on the table in front of the couch. Then he sat, and freed Two Bit from his vest. Taking this as a signal he could relax, the cyber-dog leapt onto the couch. Prowl chuckled. If a crash did develop while he was here at home, Two Bit would sense it. The fact that he did not have the harness on did not stop the cyber-dog for caring for Prowl.  Secure in his home, Prowl stretched out his legs on the couch and pulled Smokescreen onto his lap.  His creation curled  into his chassis, content for the first time in mega-cycles . As a cartoon played on the holo-imager, Prowl cuddled with his creation and his cyber-dog and allowed himself a guilt-free rest.

  
  



	2. High

With his exams rescheduled, Prowl was able to enter the ornend with far more manageable stress levels. He knew his stress and anxiety were the single worst triggers for his crashes, and he also knew that Smokescreen fed off his emotions. If Prowl was stressed, so to was Smokescreen.  The problem was, all Prowl knew was stress.  It was only the beginning of the  third vorn of this business degree he was pushing for .  With so many stellar-cycles left , Prowl was beginning to believe what his procreators had been saying. Perhaps he could not do this. So what did he do then? Clearly, he could not attend law school, not that being an advocate had really been his hope. If he  did not drop out, could he realistically make it through yet another  three vorns for an MBA?

Whether they were his thoughts or the infantilizing predictions of his procreators stealing his confidence, Prowl did his best to escape the thought loop. He would manage. He would find a way to manage because what other choice did he have? Fine, the settlement would provide him enough to allow him and his creation shelter and fuel but what sort of life would that be for him? How could he hold on to even a thread of his sanity  if all he did mega-cycle after mega-cycle was remain at home? All that time to think. All that time to  dwell on what he had lost and all he regretted. No. He could not believe he would be able to survive that. He had gone mad after the _Incident_ and before he had enrolled in university in Praxus. Though his procreators had played a large part in his duress, they alone were not to blame. 

Prowl needed time to think. The walls of his little habsuite were smothering him. He loaded Smokescreen into the stroller, put Two Bit’s harness on him, and set out for a walk. Though the suite was a little rundown and in need of some renovations, Prowl had chosen it for the location alone. While he could transform, and he could drive, Prowl did not trust himself to do it while Smokescreen was in his cab. He had never been in an accident, but what if he was? What if the one time he crashed in his alt-mode, Smokescreen was with him? On an intellectual level,  Prowl knew he was developing a phobia of driving, and the longer he avoided it, the harder it would be to become comfortable doing the task. He had less patience with himself for this phobia than he did some of his others. He understood why even the thought of holding a weapon in his servos made him hyperventilate. 

When he had thought he could still be an enforcer, Prowl had gone to the range. He had not managed to fire a single shot. And he had realized in that instant just another way his life had been forever changed.  Prowl had resigned immediately.  Looking back, Prowl thought he had been the last mechanism to accept the reality. His commanders had known from the moment they had arrived on the scene that dark-cycle that Prowl was done as a copbot. It had only taken him another twenty stellar-cycles to see the reality. Perhaps his procreators were not unlike Prowl’s old commanders. Perhaps they could see a reality Prowl had not yet accepted. No. Maybe. If the reality of Prowl’s existence was that he was a helpless and incompetent mech than he could not accept that reality. He would deny it to his grave. He could not accept that. Death would be kinder.

He pushed Smokescreen along, up the sidewalk, up beyond the university. There was a pretty little park, circling an energon lake. It was a good place to walk. Smokescreen babbled at him, and Prowl slowly relaxed. His doorwing sensors were turned to medium high. Higher than would be considered normal for a civilian. Prowl could not step out into the street with the sensory blindness Praxian civilians found normal. This still was an improvement. It had taken vorns before Prowl had been able to tune them down even this low.  Hyper v igilance was a  common part of  PTSD. Though Prowl was in a better place with it now than he had been, it was an on going battle. 

But he was better, Prowl realized. He did not jump or flinch as strangers walked by. He did not see shadows moving in the corners of his optics  when he followed the bend in the path . He did not reach for a gun he no longer carried.  Progress, Prowl realized was slow. But he had made progress, and had made far more of it in Iacon than he had in Praxus. The vision of him and his future that his procreators saw was the one they had been playing a part in making. Sheltered and smothered and silenced he could not have hoped to find the will or strength to fight for his life and his processor. They loved him, and knowing this made it harder for Prowl to understand how bad they were for him. Every time he opened his inbox and he found a message there, he grieved. Inevitably he regretted opening the messages. He had never thought he would deny his procreators access to their grand-creation. But the longer he remained in Iacon, hiding away from them, the more forceful they became with their glyphs. They said he was not behaving rationally. They demanded he return to Praxus  where they would care for him. Prowl had given up trying to make them understand that this was the last thing he wanted. The very last thing.

“Puppy!”

“No touching!” Smokescreen waved his servos as a mechling not much older than him came running towards them. “He’s working!”

“Sorry about that,” an older mech with a harpoon for a servo came jogging up. Prowl’s spark raised with fear. Next to him, Two Bit rumbled a purr and nudged his hip. “Dev, see that vest? The pup’s working.”

“Thank you for understanding,” he said, keeping his voice even, and keeping the fear at bay. It was none of his business why a mech would be walking around with a harpoon instead of a servo. It was nothing to do with him. The mech was not a threat to him.”

“Nothing to understand. Sorry he made a run for ya. I’m still learnin’ what Dev here knows. My creation dropped him off on my doorstep. We’re trying to figure each other out.”

“Dev?” Prowl said. “My designation is Prowl. My creation is Smokescreen and my cyber-dog is Two Bit. His job is to care of me. He tells me when I am going to be... sick. So I can be safe.”

“Puppy has a job?”

“That is right.”

“Like the canine enforcer we saw last orn, Short Stop.”

“As it happens, Two Bit was supposed to be a canine enforcer but he failed his training spectacularly. I am fortunate he did.”

“Looks like he takes his job seriously. We won’t keep ya.”

At least Dev’s grand-creator respected Two Bit’s role as Prowl’s service mechanimal. Some procreators were personally affronted when Prowl refused to allow their creations to pet Two Bit. Smokescreen had taken his own lesson seriously. Now he usually warned off any sparklings before Prowl could even say a glyph. He was a clever little mechling. Prowl was singularly fortunate to be his originator.  They continued their walk around the lake. Some mega-cycle, when he was feeling particularly strong, Prowl would let Two Bit out of his harness and throw a ball for him, but Prowl was not feeling terribly strong. His procreators’ messages had the singular ability to make him feel small, and powerless. They did not mean to, he prayed they did not. But they thought he was powerless, broken and helpless and incapable of caring for himself or his creation. Prowl could not let them be proven right.

“We will go to Main Street, Sweetspark. I want to give Jazz a present for being so kind to us. We will stop at Mix-It and get oil shakes too.”

“Oil shakes! Yummy!”

There as a florist just around the corner. Prowl had visited it a few times. Crystal terrariums made their drab habsuite homey to him. He knew they sold artisan goodies. It was better to purchase from a small business, he thought, that to buy a box of mass manufactured treats from Megamart.  Swivel was at the counter, as he always was. If the elderly mech had any staff, Prowl had never encountered them. As the bell chimed when Prowl pushed the Smokescreen inside, the florist looked up, and waved. Though all businesses had to accept Two Bit’s presence, Prowl could not make himself suffer the looks and grumbles of those unhappy with his service mechanimal's presence. Perhaps it was cowardly of him, but Prowl had enough battles to fight.

As always, Prowl went to the crystal bar, and slowly made some selections. Swivel did lovely work. His arrangements showed an expertise that Prowl certainly did not have, but he enjoyed arranging crystals. It was consider a mark of a Praxian’s classical educations to learn the art. Prowl had been reasonably good at it, considering he did not have a creative strut in his frame. Though the central feature of the Helix Gardens was the singing garden,  it was not the only one. There were crystals like these in his tray throughout the gardens. Prowl did not know if crystal had a deeper meaning in Iacon, but they did in Praxus. As he made his choices, he had an image, and a theme in his processor, and he selected the crystals that would best communicate the message.”

“Clinohumite refers to happiness, Sweetspark. Larimar refers to gratitude. We want the right stone, with just a thread of gold to tie in the clinohumite.”

“I thought you must have had some training,” Swivel said as he walked up. “Praxians usually do.

“Those that have classical educations, yes,” Prowl replied. “There has been a movement for sometime pulling away from the more traditional lessons. I enjoyed these lessons. Though I would have preferred to have been spared music and dance.”

“You’ve got a good optic, you know. My femmeling’s been away in Altihex for university. She was supposed to come back to help me with Chosen One Day but her exams got bumped up. She’s’ studying law. Neither of my creations really enjoy crystals, though they’re happy to help their old mech... I don’t suppose you could use extra credits. I really could use a servo next ornend.”

“Oh. I would not want to hurt your reputation.”

“Hurt it? You’ve got the basics already. Praxian, Iaconian, crystals are crystals and the basics stay the same.”

“You would not mind Smokescreen and Two Bit. I cannot go without either.”

“They’re always welcome.”

“I could help. If nothing else, I could clean up.”

“I’m sure I can make better use of you then that. This is my last Chosen One Day. I’m moving to Altihex. Slide moved to be closer to his twin. Oiler’s got an internship that looks to become a permanent thing. I’ve worked millenia here. I figured I’ve earned my retirement.”

“You have. I would be pleased to help.”

“Why don’t you show me what you wanted to make with these ones? I’ve got stools in the back. I’m too old to stand around all ‘cycle”

Though Prowl was nervous. The crystals found their way together. Swivel took a large tray from his back room, and offered the filler crystals for his use. He built the arrangement from the imagine in his processor, placing the clinohumite below the rough cut larimar to form a soft crescent shape. With additional crystals in gunmetal and white the arrangement came together nicely. Prowl held a small honey gold stone in his servo, and fit it into place. If you worked long enough, you could use a thousand crystals in a single piece. You could always add more. But Prowl found there was always a point were it became too much, and the message was lost in the mass. It was done. It said what he wanted.

“I knew you had a knack. You’ve got the making of a florist.”

“Oh no. I am only tinkering.”

“No Prowl, you’ve got the optic, and the touch. You know when to stop. It’s the hardest lesson to teach. Crystals are so beautiful we want to use them all, in everything.”

“You are very kind Swivel.”

“Honest, young mech.”

“No so young anymore.”

“Compared to me, you’re a newbuild.”

“I feel old and worn. I not know what I am doing in university. I thought... Academia was the last thing I was good at before the enforcers. I do not know... I do not know what I hope to accomplish.”

“What do you want to do with your degree?”

“Work. But the longer I study, the less I know what I can hope to do. I find myself comparing what I can do with what I cannot. The lists of cannots is so much longer.”

“You know, a business degree is a useful thing. I’ve got one myself, and one in accounting. I did the books myself when I started out. Not that I’d planned on buying this shop. I thought I’d work for RoboCo or some big corporation, and I did. But it didn’t take long before it sucked the spark from me. I took crystal design classes to wind down. One mega-cycle, after my manager slagged me off for leaving early again, I decided I was done. I was trying to adopted Oiler and Slide. I had to go to a lot of meetings, court dates. They were important than any cold plated aft’s deadline. I bought this shop from one of the florists who taught the classes. Best decision I ever made.”

“I had not considered owning a business.”

“See how you like working behind the counter next ornend. Maybe it’s not grand, but making beautiful things is a great way to make living.”

“You think I should be a florist.”

“You have the touch. You have the optic. And you smile when you’re working with them. Can’t say it isn’t ever stressful but the thing about owning the shop? You can tell those customers to stuff it.”

“I am a long way from owning anything.”

“Come work with me for Chosen One Day. We can talk.”

“I do not have the credits to buy the shop from you.”

“Let’s see how you like the work. Then we can talk shop.”

Prowl left with his arrangement and the goodies. Swivel had given him the employee discount. In his processor, Prowl thought of the settlement, and did the math. It was not so impossible. Maybe, it was not impossible at all. Much of the settlement was invested, slowly growing with the goal for Prowl to purchase a habsuite, somewhere. If he worked a while, somewhere, doing something, maybe working with crystals. It would be logical, he would need more experience if he hoped to make a living at it. Did he want to be a florist? Prowl wanted to be good at something. He wanted to do what he was good at. He wanted to find passion in something. Might he find it in crystals? Prowl had not found it in a coursebook. He found peace in them, the single thing he found hardest to hold to. Perhaps peace was of greater value than passion. Perhaps.

“Are you ready for your oil shake?”

“Yummy shake!”

It was odd, but as Prowl pushed the stroller towards Mix It, Prowl found himself smiling, and he found himself imagining. Perhaps. There was no fortune to be had. But Prowl had never cared much for fortunes. He had not found the prospect of sitting around as someone else earned his shanix for him appealing. There were no honours in crystals, he thought. No metals, no plaques. No politician would demand a photo-op, shaking his servo in front of the cameras. Prowl’s smile only grew wider. Working with crystals all day, making beautiful things. Hope, he realized in this moment, was the most incredible high.


	3. Law/Crime

“Do ya work here?” Prowl turned around after he passed the apron to Swivel. Jazz smiled at him, just steps away. Stiff, or shy Prowl smiled back.

“I am just helping for Chosen One Day.”

“Did ya make that arrangement yerself?”

“Oh. Yes...”

“That’s amazing’.”

“They are only crystals.”

“They’re beautiful. Ya steppin’ out.”

“I am going to fetch fuel. Swivel is watching Smokescreen.”

“I could walk wit ya, if ya don’t mind.”

“No. No, I do not mind. But you do not have somewhere to be?”

“Nah, just pickin’ up some fuel to take home. Ric’s workin’ at the Maccadam’s this dark-cycle. Figured I’d get ‘m some o’ his favourites.”

“It must be distressing not to spend the ‘cycle with your mate.”

“Not my mate. My twin.”

“Oh...”

“Ya like crystals, I guess?”

“I... Yes. I enjoy them.”

It was odd. Prowl was not generally adept at small talk. He and Polaris had started off as colleagues, of sorts. His intended had been a prosecutor, and Prowl first a metaforensics detective and then a captain of the enforcers. Their paths have frequently crossed, and they had gotten to know each other, talking about work. Romance had come later, trickling into their meetings over energon. Jazz made it easy for him. He asked questions, light and fluffy questions. Nothing Prowl might feel would be use as a judgment against him. It was nice. It was nice to speak with someone, and for that someone to want to hear what he had to say. Prowl made his order. He thought Jazz would walk on, but he stayed as Prowl waited. They chatted. No one would ever believe Prowl could chat. It was nice. As they walked back to the shop, they shared a laugh about the professor. It had been a while since Prowl had laughed.

The door was broken open. Prowl’s spark stilled in his chassis. He dropped the take-away and Two Bit’s harness and ran to the door. A hulking Iaconian held a blaster trained on Swivel’s helm as the old florist barred his way to the counter. Behind the counter... Smokescreen was behind that counter. Energon ran down the side of Swivel’s helm. The centre display had been smashed. The arrangements he and Swivel had carefully prepared over the course of two mega-cycles were smashed. Crystals littered the floor. Prowl stared at the gun. So did Swivel. Swivel did not see Prowl in the doorway. Carefully, but urgently Prowl slipped passed the broken door. He stepped softly. One step. Another.

“Get outta my way!”

“I told you! I’ve given you everything I have, just go!”

“Get outta my way!”

Prowl saw the cable in his arm tense as his trigger digit tightened. He lunged, without ventilating, without thinking. The robber did not know he was there until Prowl had him by the wrist. A wrist Prowl twisted until he heard struts snaps. As they did, the mech howled and the blaster fell from his digits. Prowl kicked it away as he forced the mech down, and knelt over him, keeping him pinned.

“Frag!” Jazz cursed. “Y’aight?”

“Call the enforcers,” Prowl said. He was shaking, and he held the robber tighter as he cursed Prowl and complained how much he was hurting him. At the counter, Swivel had sagged down to the floor. His helm was in his servos. “EMS as well.”

“Fraggin’ right, you broke my arm you piece of slag,” the robber cursed.

“Not for you,” Prowl hissed. He was shaking. He could not stop himself from shaking.

“Thank Primus you came back,” Swivel said. Jazz was kneeling next to him, optics distant as he made the comm. He took a piece of clothe from his subspace and held it to Swivel’s helm. “I tried to lock the door. I saw the blaster through the window. But he forced it open on me. I gave him everything. I kept him away from the counter.”

“Oh!!! Oh Oh!” Smokescreen peaked his helm from around the counter. Prowl felt his struts go weak and the robber renewed his struggles, Prowl squeezed down harder.

“Hey, lil mech, stay over here,” Jazz ordered. Prowl wanted to hold his creation but he was grateful that Jazz pulled Smokescreen onto his lap. If the robber got free from him, Prowl could not bear the thought of Smokescreen getting hurt.

Enforcers came. They entered the shop blaster’s drawn and Prowl’s plating clattered. He surrendered the slagtard to their servos as he bitterly complained about the abuse he had suffered at Prowl’s servo. They separated Prowl from Jazz and Swivel. They took statements. Prowl Smokescreen in his arms as Two Bit sat at his side, and he explained what he had seen and what he had done. The detective repeated his questions, phrased a little differently each time. Testing him for inconsistencies or weaknesses. They were suspects, Prowl realized with some anger, him and Jazz. As Swivel was taken away in the first ambulance, Prowl and Jazz remained. It was the same questions, and Prowl gave the same answers. After what felt like joors, Prowl dropped his helm against Two Bit and moaned:

“I want to go home.”

“Are we done here?” Jazz sounded impatient. Prowl should have told him to moderate his tone but he did not lift his helm off of Two Bit’s burly shoulder. “Ya got our statements, five fraggin’ time each, ya got surveillance. How many times do we gotta say the same slag?”

Prowl did not hear the enforcer’s reply. The detective led Jazz off, or did Jazz lead him off. Though Prowl felt a brief flicker of guilt. He should have gone after them, and taken control. He knew how to talk to inspectors but Prowl remained sitting on the sidewalk, clutching Smokescreen to his chassis. Over the course of the many interviews, he had rocked his creation into recharge. Smokescreen did not understand what had happened. Thank Primus. Thank Primus he had not been hurt. But Swivel had. Only a concussion, they thought. But he was an old mech and they had taken him into the medicentre as a precaution. They had taken the suspect to the medicentre too. Prowl had broken his arm. He was not the least bit sorry. Plating clattering as he shook, Prowl’s clutched at Two Bit, and listened to the beast’s engine rumble low and steady.

“Got a transport, Prowl,” Jazz said as he reappeared. At this Prowl lifted his helm. “Come on, I’ll take ya home.”

Home. Yes, that was what Prowl needed. What he desperately wanted. Jazz took his servo and helped him to his peds. He hovered at Prowl’s side as he guided him to the transport. Prowl was on autopilot, and he followed along as the Polihexian led him into the Convoy’s crew cab. Two Bit laid down at his peds as the Convoy drove off as Prowl held his creation and stared off at nothing. His processor was spinning but he could not settle on any train of thought. He shuddered again and his plating clattered. Jazz took his servo, and guided him from the transport. Prowl clung to Two Bit’s harness, his anchor in the storm. The Convoy drove off and Prowl looked up. Home, they were home. Prowl trembled again, and he almost ran inside. Jazz followed him. Followed him inside.

“I need to put Smokescreen down.”

“Sure.”

There were no stairs. Prowl could not carry Smokescreen up or down stairs, it was not safe. Leaning into Two Bit, half afraid his struts would give out at any nanoklik, Prowl carried Smokescreen to his berthroom. It was not a large room, meant to be a den rather than a berthroom but he had wanted a bright and happy space for his creation, and he had wanted to avoid waking him on those dark-cycles when Prowl suffered memory purges. Smokescreen did not so much as shift as Prowl knelt next to his berth, laid him down and pulled the blanket over him. For good measure, Prowl tucked his plush cyber-dog under his arm. He kissed Smokescreen on his helm. With a shaky intake, Prowl rose, and immediately his helm spun. Half processed energon rose in his throat and Prowl staggered into the washracks. He made it to the waste receptacle with not so much as a fraction of a nanoklik to spare. Prowl purged, and he purged again. By the time he stopped Prowl was limp. He sagged against the counter. Jazz appeared, Prowl could hardly raise his help, his optics were offline, and tightly shuttered. His classmate draped a blanket over his shoulders, and Two Bit forced his way into Prowl’s lap.

“Are ya okay?” Jazz asked.

“I will never be okay,” Prowl replied flatly. It was the truth. Though his throat hurt, and the lingering taste of the purged energon was vile, Prowl did not try to stand and rinse his mouth out. He sat there on the floor, miserable, shaking and held on to his cyber-dog as though Two Bit was the only way he would remain online.

“You were real fraggin’ brave.”

“No.”

“Ya disarmed that sack o’ slag wit out stoppin’ for a klik.”

“It is a common manoeuvre. Every enforcer learns it. You drill in it until you do not need to think.”

“Ya were an enforcer?”

“Mhm,” Prowl nodded against Two Bit’s neck. Sitting on the floor, his cyber-dog towered over him. His great big helm dwarfed Prowl’s. He ran his servos up and down Two Bit’s helm, and scratched behind his flopping ears.

“Though ya had the look o’ one.”

“Not anymore. I am broken.”

“Did ya see some slag on yer beat?” Jazz asked. Prowl liked him very much. Jazz offered Prowl no platitudes. He did not argue with Prowl’s self-description. He did not claim to know Prowl better than Prowl himself did.

“Mm mm.” Prowl held on to Two Bit. The follow admission came easy. “I shot Smokescreen’s progenitor.”

“Ya had to have had a reason.”

“I onlined and he was on top of me. His servos were around my throat. He was crushing it. He was hurting me. I knocked him off and fell back. I could not understand. I might have crashed, or at least reset. I demanded he explain himself. He looked at me with vacant optics. It was like he was looking through me. He was one me again. I saw moonlight glint off the blade, energon dripping... I realized he had stabbed me. I tossed him off again. I screamed at him. He looked through me. He looked through me and I told him to drop the knife. He lunged at me. I shot him. He fell. I shot him through the spark. Polaris... he was dead before he hit the floor.”

“‘M so sorry Prowl.”

“He had been having memory purges. I thought it was stressed. He had been working on a case, the judge dismissed it due to procedural errors. He was not recharging. His medic recommended he see a mnemosurgeon at the Institute. I did not want him to. I wanted him to work through his thoughts, not just cut out the ones he did not like. But he thought I was biased. I suppose I was. I was a hypocrite. I was content to use mnemosurgeons in my investigations, but I was loathe to let them near my processor. A consequence of having an unusual glitch, mechanisms always want to poke around. They all think they are the expert that can fix it. It cannot be fixed. It is a hardware error.”

“Ya already had the glitch.”

“I emerged with it. It involves multiple systems. I do not process emotions properly.”

“Havin’ to kill yer own mate would be hard to process.”

“We were not... Our procreators could not agree to a contract. We had become tired of waiting for them as they bickered over property and shanix. We bonded our sparks and kindled Smokescreen. We were taking the common bond approach to bypass them.”

“Ya didn’t see it comin’, I guess.”

“I did not. I begrudgingly admitted that the mnemosurgery had helped him. He was recharging again. He was happy and eager to get back into the case. He wanted to find away around the errors. An orn later he tried to kill me. He tried to stab Smokescreen within my forge. He stabbed me three times. I did not feel it until I saw the blade.”

“Slag.”

“The investigation concluded that the mnemosurgery had corrupted his procecssor. Errors were building until he snapped that dark-cycle. I do not understand how. I will never understand.”

“Something’s can’t be understood. Can I help ya up, Prowl? Y’d feel better in yer berth, wouldn’t ya?”

Prowl nodded, and he leaned on Two Bit as Jazz stood with him, and helped him rinse the stale energon from his mouth. Jazz guided him to his berthroom, and pulled back the blankets. Feeling strutless, Prowl laid down. He wanted to bury himself under the blankets and not come up again. On the other side of the berth, the blankets were pulled back and Prowl lifted his helm. No! Jazz padded the berth and Two Bit leapt up, he burrowed under the blankets and pushed his great mass against Prowl. He was not supposed to be in the berth, but Prowl clung to him. He buried his face in Two Bit’s thick neck and ventilated. At the foot of the ped, Jazz sat. Prowl thought he should tell him he could go, but his whole focus narrowed in on his ventilations. Jazz remained even as Prowl slowly slipped off into recharge.


	4. Sensory

It was Two Bit nudging his snout against Prowl’s face that saw the Praxian come online in the light-cycle. The cyber dog whine pitifully. Prowl checked his chronometer and jerked upright. No wonder Two Bit was whining, he must have been desperate for a walk. Throwing his legs over the side of his berth Prowl looked to his right. Jazz. His classmate. How long had Jazz sat there? Prowl did not remember him saying goodbye. He hoped Jazz had not stayed too long. It was embarrassing to think he had allowed himself to be put to berth, tucked in with his cyber dog. Even more embarrassing was the reality that it had been the perfect thing, the most needful thing. Hugging Two Bit, Prowl had been able to recharge. The ghosts of memory purges flitted through his helm but they fades quickly. He would not have thought it would be possible. What was he going to do to thank Jazz for this? If he could bring himself to look at his classmate.

Prowl loathed helplessness. He resisted it with every component in his frame. Jazz had put him to berth, tucked him in and stayed. If his tears had not long dried up, Prowl might have cried with frustration. Primus, please let him have gone home. Prowl could not imagine looking the mech in the optic if he learned Jazz had taken it upon himself to be his keeper all dark-cycle. It was hard to get himself upright. Not for physically weakness, but rather mental. If Jazz was waiting out there, Prowl would not know, would not need to face the humiliation. Two Bit whined again and Prowl stood. The longer he lingered, the harder it would be to get up. His cyber-dog needed his walk. Smokescreen needed him to get him up and to get him fuelled.

He held his intakes and stepped from his berthroom. His living room was empty Prowl sighed with relief. The blanket Jazz had draped over his back was back the sofa. Rumbled a little, not as neatly folded as Prowl kept it but it was back where Jazz would have found it. Smokescreen’s stroller was by the door. Not where Prowl normally stored it but was here. He would not need to back to Swivel’s and hope the enforcers would allow him to retrieve it. The door was lock. How did he feel? Prowl asked himself. Weary. Grateful. Jazz had gotten them home, and when he been content that they were safe, he had gone on his way, locking the door behind him. It was... it was more than his procreators had done. If they had locked the door it would have been on him, not for him.

“Oh Oh!” Smokescreen looked up as Prowl appeared in the doorway. Smokescreen had taken every one of his plushies out of the netting they were stored in. His berth was covered. It looked like he had been playing some sort of game. He was a singularly imaginative sparkling.

“Yes, my sweetest spark, Oh Oh is here.” Prowl cooed. “Two Bit needs his walk. I will make us breakfast after, alright?”

“I wanna walk!”

“Alright, but we will take the stroller.”

After making sure Smokescreen’s waste tank was not full, Prowl stowed the stroller in his subspace, and attached Two Bit’s lead to his collar. He held servos with Smokescreen and set out the door. The breeze tickled his plating. His sensory grid was primed. Yet it was only a whisper of what he had felt the dark-cycle before. It almost hurt. The tickle a little more like an itch or a scratch. But with it was feeling almost like elation. When Smokescreen and Swivel had needed him to keep his helm, Prowl had. Under the weight of that unspeakable terror, he had been able to act. He had protected his creation and his friend. A whisper of that fear lingered. It was was kept his sensory grid primed, but Prowl had faced it, and he had survived. When Smokescreen had needed him he had not crashed.

“Prowl.” Jazz called his designation. Caught up in his thoughts, Prowl had not seen him walking across the street. He froze, and Two Bit huffed. Jazz crossed the street. There was a tray in his servo holding two cubes of pressed energon, and take-away box.

“Jazz...”

“I know I overstepped,” Jazz said, he offered Prowl a crooked smile. Holding up the tray he said: “‘N I know this is probably not the way to apologize. I thought. I dunno. Just tell me to frag off if ‘m gettin’ on yer last circuit.”

“Thank you, Jazz,” Prowl replied. How did he feel? Embarrassed. Bewildered. Pleased. “Did you want to walk with us? Two Bit needs to sniff around the block before he finds a post worthy to relieve himself on. It is of course the same post every time. But he acts like he is just discovering every time.”

“I’d love to.”

Two Bit made a happy grumble as their walk resumed. He paid no mind to the newcomer. The cyber dog seemed to respect Jazz. As was common with his breed of cyber dog, Two Bit was protective of what he saw as _his_ mechanisms. Though Jazz walked along, on the other side of Smokescreen, Two Bit was completely at ease. It was funny. But so was Prowl. He did not feel like he had to be on guard with this mech. Jazz did no treated him like was broken, though he helped him when he was. If Prowl was not careful he might fall a little in love with the mech just thanks to his kindness alone. The thought was bemusing, but he thought he would rather settle on calling Jazz a friend. As they came around to that particular post, the sight of it saw Two Bit doing a full frame wiggle and he twirled in a victory dance.

“He’s a character,” Jazz chuckled at the display. Prowl smiled. The sound of Jazz’s laugh fell over his doorwings. It felt as warm as it sounded.

“They could not teach him anything. There were no rewards he cared enough for. He was perfectly capable of climbing a latter or walking through a debris field, but he did it his own way, at his own pace. They could not convince him to bite on command, or otherwise. I do not belief he has a mean strut in his frame.”

“Want up.” Smokescreen demanded as Two Bit relieved himself.

“Let me get out your stroller.”

“No stroller. Up!”

“Sweetspark, no. It is not safe.”

“Prowl, if ya don’t mind. I can carry’m if ya take the fuel.”

“Oh... Well... Alright.”

“What do ya say, lil mech?” Jazz knelt next to Smokescreen. “Sheepacron ride?”

“Yeah! Yeah!”

Jazz set down the tray, scooped Smokescreen up and placed him on his shoulders. Smokescreen cackled gleefully as Jazz stood up. With Jazz holding Smokescreen’s servos in his, Prowl’s bitlet was safe. Prowl felt a pang of jealously. He wished he could trust himself to do this. Smokescreen smiled down at him, and Prowl swallowed the jealously and lifted the tray. His creation was happy, so Prowl would be happy with him. Jazz was natural with Smokescreen. He had not mentioned creations, but perhaps he had younger siblings, or relatives he had cared for. Polihex was... unstable. It was in the midst of a third civil war in as many millenia. Jazz’s accent was strong. Prowl thought he had not lived in Iacon much longer than Prowl had.

“There are tables in the park. We could have our fuel there.”

“A picnic. Sounds great!”

The weather was pleasantly warm. They were not the only mechanisms in the park. There were couples sitting on benches drinking pressed energon, and joggers running down the path. It would be busier in the mid-cycle, Prowl preferred to avoid it in these times. Strangers did not bother him as much as they had. Mechanisms in general bothered him less. Jazz did not bother him. His presence was welcome, very welcome indeed. Prowl led the way to a picnic table well away from other park users and set down the tray. Two Bit sat next to his leg. After a nanoklik’s hesitation, Prowl removed his vest and set it on the bench.

“Two Bit, Free.”

“Oof!” As he always did, Two Bit did a couple of springy jumps as he was released from this watch. He sniffed around the bench, between ecstatic leaps, and did not wander far.

“Two Bit, you’re silly.”

“He sure is a character,” Jazz declared and he lowered Smokescreen into Prowl’s arms. Prowl hugged his creation. Felt the hum of his spark, against his chaissis and smelled the sweet scent of his protoform. Smokescreen grabbed his face and kissed him noisily.

“He’s a great mechling.”

“Thank you.”

Prowl sat Smokescreen on his lap as Jazz opened the take out container to reveal an assortment of energon donuts. They were hardly the most nutritious breakfast, but neither was Garbage O’s. Prowl took a rust dipped one and broke it in half, giving Smokescreen on piece, and keeping the other for himself. Jazz chose and oil filled, talc dusted donut and uncapped his pressed energon. Prowl did the same for his own cube. Undoctored it was still not as dark as he tended to brew it but Prowl would have been grateful with even the lightest press. It was a gift, after all. Two Bit flopped onto the ground and rolled about on his back, glossa lolling out of his mouth. He understood that he was not permitted to beg. But when Smokescreen dropped a crumb, Two Bit was there like a shot, licking it up with a great swipe of his glossa. Jazz laughed.

“Guess I shoulda got’m somethin’.”

“Smokescreen is not a neat eater, Two Bit will have a treat. He pretends not to pay attention when we are fuelling, but he is in fact very attentive. I hardly need to clean up after Smokescreen, Two Bit considers that his job.”

“Ya do good work, Two Bit,” Jazz chuckled.

“I wanted to thank you, Jazz, for locking the door.”

“Of course! Wasn’t gonna leave ya vulnerable like that. I meant it when I said ya could tell me to frag off if ‘m outta line.”

“Frag,” Smokescreen snickered.

“Aw sl...” Jazz groaned. “Yer gonna get me in trouble lil mech! Sorry, Prowl. I wasn’t raised on the right side o’ the tracks. Still learnin’ manners.”

“It is only a glyph,” Prowl replied. “I am not used to mechanisms being kind, Jazz. So often when someone helps me it is to make themselves feel good. It is because they feel I need it. It is infantalizing, and demeaning being treated like that. You do not make me feel demeaned. Thank you.”

“Ya ever need anythin’, gimme a call. If ya can’t get out to the store. ‘M happy to help.”

“Thank you. I could use a friend.”

“Well, ya got one right here.”

Prowl smiled. He felt a warm bloom in core of his spark, and it spread throughout his frame. Smokescreen turned his helm up and smiled at Prowl, his face covered in crumbs Two Bit would lick away if Prowl did not get a cloth first. Jazz drank his pressed energon and Prowl nibbled at his donut. The sun crawled over his doorwings, and Prowl flared his plating a little. They talked about school, and about nothing at all. He should have wanted to get back home but Prowl was content, truly content as he basked in the warmth and the company. His plating did not prickle, and as Prowl angled his doorwings to catch more sun, he felt good.


	5. Command

There was a knock at the door. Prowl looked up from his datapad. It was the ornend. He had spent the mega-cycle before helping Oiler, Swivel’s femme, clean up the broken glass and ruined crystals in the shop. She had cried, and hugged him and oh how that had made his plating crawl but as she had effused her thanks over and over Prowl had managed to keep himself from hyperventilating. Prowl could not blame her for her tears. Though she was grown, Swivel was her only procreator. He had adopted her and her twin from foster care when they had been frightened and traumatized sparklings, and he had already been an old mech. She had been prepared to lose him to the ravages of age at some point, but never to violence. Though Prowl had insisted that Swivel had been hurt protecting Prowl’s creation, the femme had refused to hear it.

It had not been her intention for Prowl to stay with her to clean, but Smokescreen had been napping in his stroller, and she had looked drawn and spent and so he had stayed. He had tried to refuse her payment. But she had insisted, on behalf of her procreator, that he take his percentage of Chosen One Day’s earnings. Prowl could not visit Swivel in the medicentre, he could not tolerate them, but he had promised to visit him at home when he was released. Oiler had been pleased with his promise. It had proven to be a long mega-cycle, and an emotionally draining one but Prowl had made it through. This mega-cycle he was content to stay at home. There was another knock and Two Bit raised his helm off the couch and looked to the door. Smokescreen was down for his nap. Jazz was supposed to be coming over in a few joors to work on a group project together, after Smokescreen’s nap so as not to disturb the mechling’s schedule. Prowl felt a flicker of irritation. It could have been him. He could have been early. Jazz seemed to have a fluid sense of time.

Prowl walked to the door. Jazz had told him that Prowl should tell him when he oversteps. He tried to formulate a polite way of saying that he was early, and it was a problem. The glyphs died on his glossa and Prowl opened the door, and it was not Jazz looking at him with a sheepish grin. It was his originator. It was his progenitor. Prowl hit the door with his palm, signalling it to close. His originator, Camshaft’s arm shot out and blocked it from closing, he forced it to the side. Prowl grabbed the handle and held it firm. He would not let them inside.

“Move out of the way, Prowl,” Camshaft commanded. Prowl felt as if his spark was spinning in his helm. He felt like he could not ventilate, but he remained. This was his home, his, and Prowl would not be chased into a corner. They had no right to be here. They had no right.

“Go home, Originator,” Prowl said. He could not keep the rasp from his voice. Fighting a full frame shudder, Prowl held tight to the door. How dare they? How dare they invade his safe space?

“Prowl, we have been patient with you but it is time enough for you to stop this ridiculous tantrum.”

“Go home.” Prowl repeated. He would not be lured into another circular argument. There was no point. They would not listen. Primus but they had made that abundantly clear. Prowl looked over Camshaft’s shoulder to his progenitor, Downshift. “Progenitor. Go home.”

“Enough, Prowl. Clearly you have taken leave of your senses, you ran away in the dead of the dark-cycle to live in the slums instead of using your trust...”

“Your classism is showing, Originator.” Prowl hissed. “You discredit my neighbours who have done nothing to earn your disdain. Just because it is not a grand manor or a luxury condo does not mean it is a hovel. This is not a slum. I will not go with you. I will not touch your credits. I do not need you. I will _never_ need you again.”

Two Bit appeared at his side, and wriggled his great bulk between Prowl and the door. Without making a sound he nudged his helm against Camshaft’s abdomen and pushed him out of the doorway. He stood between Prowl and his procreator, an unmovable force. The enforcer’s canine trainer had not been able to train Two Bit to bite, but Prowl had been able to train him to keep intruders out. Unless Prowl welcomed a mechanism in, Two Bit would simply push him out. Prowl placed a servo between his cyber dog’s shoulders and hoped he could borrow just a little of his strength. Though he kept his back straight and confident, it was an act and he was certain his procreators could see through it. All the same, he did not slump.

“I sent you those photos of Smokescreen as a kindness because I know you love him. But it will not happen again. Until you can respect that my right to make my choices in mine and my creations lives, you will not hear from us again.”

When Prowl stepped back, he pulled Two Bit back with him, and before his procreators could rush forward, he closed and locked the door. Their fists thundered against the door a nanoklik later. The manual handle rattled, but Prowl had engaged the lock. He sank to the floor as his procreators continued to pound against the door. Face buried in his servos, Prowl sobbed. This breech, this betrayal... it was as if they had stabbed him too. Two Bit wriggled his helm into Prowl’s lap, and the sparkbroken mech fell over his service mechanimal and cried. Though the banging stopped, Prowl knew they would not just go. This was only the beginning. Helplessness seized his spark. Just when he had finally felt like his was gaining a ped hold, his procreators had knocked him back. They had stripped him of his security, robbed him of this safe space. It would never be the same.

It was a joor before Prowl stopped crying. The emotional jag had left him raw. On weak legs, he rose, and dragged himself into the kitchen. Two Bit never left his servo. He added crystals to his press and brewed a cube of energon. Cupping the cube in his servos, Prowl dragged himself over to the couch. Setting it on the table, he took the fuzzy blanket it and tossed it over his doorwings, as he wrapped it around himself, he retrieved the black fuel, and tried to calm his processor and his spark. Two Bit joined him on the couch, but did not relax quite as he had before the invasion. Prowl looked at the door and tears pooling in his optics again. It would never be the same. He would never find the same peace here again.

Smokescreen called for him, as Prowl stared into his cube. At least he was a heavy recharger, at least he had not heard them. He would have run to them. It would have been terrible. In the last few stellar-cycles Smokescreen had stopped asking after them. Prowl had never wanted him to forget them, but they had not given him a choice. They had truly not given him a choice now, and he thought it was terribly unfair. His procreators felt they had more authority over Smokescreen than Prowl did. When Smokescreen had been even smaller, when he had crawled or toddled to Prowl and reached up, one of Prowl’s procreators would take him from Prowl when he had barely taken his creation in his arms. They had trained Smokescreen to go to them and not to Prowl when he had scraped his knees or servos. That had been the final straw. When Smokescreen had refused comfort from Prowl in favour of his procreators, that had been that much too much. Prowl had known he had to escape. They had been killing him. How could they not have seen it? How could they still not see that they had been robbing him of his only reason to live. That his shocked spark had withered as they had robbed him of his creation’s love.

“My bitlet,” Prowl cooed as he entered Smokescreen’s room. Smokescreen cocked his helm at him. Of course he sensed Prowl’s distress. And maybe with the proximity he had a vague sense of his procreators. “My dearest. My love.”

“Oh Oh!”

“Did you have a good nap?”

“No nap!”

“Of course, you were only resting your optics.”

Prowl lifted Smokescreen from his berth and held him in his arms. Gently, he rocked from ped to ped and hummed low in his spark. Smokescreen sighed with contentment as his originator’s hum matched the resonance of his spark. Still humming, perhaps as much to sooth himself as his creation, Prowl carried Smokescreen into the living room and sat him on the mat in the little nook of the room. It contained a toy kitchen, and a table for blocks. They were second hand toys. Prowl had not taken more than Smokescreen’s dearest treasures when he had left his procreators’ home. But he had found this older, but still perfectly functional toys in the charity shop nearby. Smokescreen had not cared that they were used. He loved them. Feeling the need to remain close to his creation, Prowl knelt on the floor next to Smokescreen and build a tower with him. The blanket remained draped over his doorwings. The fuzzy texture soothed his sensors, as well as blinded them. It helped when Prowl was under stress to reduce the sensory bombardment.

There was a knock at the door, and Prowl choked on his intakes. Not again. Not again. He checked his chronometer. Oh. Of course. It would be Jazz. Prowl had forgotten to cancel their session. Chagrined, Prowl rose. Smokescreen cooed at him and Prowl smiled down at him. Jazz would forgive him, Prowl thought. That mech was singularly understanding, and forgiving. If only Prowl’s procreators could be more like them. If they would only help instead of insider on hindering. In the back of Prowl’s processor, he feared it might be his procreators again, and before he opened the door, he checked the camera. His knees went weak when he saw it was Jazz. Relief so strong, Prowl’s spark pulsed erratically. Holding the blanket closed over his chassis, Prowl opened the door, just a fraction. Two Bit, perhaps expecting trespasser again, nudged Prowl out of his way, and planted his great lump of a frame between Jazz and his master. Jazz cocked his helm at the cyber dog. Prowl gave him a weak, forced smile.

“I am sorry. I meant to comm you. I do not believe I am in the frame of processor to work on the project.”

“Somethin’ wrong?” Jazz asked. Concern bled into his field and brushed against Prowl’s. Why did that feel so good? “Can I help?”

“No...” Prowl replied. But as the urge to shake once again took hold, he realized how desperately he needed someone, a friend. “I mean. Yes, but no... come in.”

“Tell me what ya need Prowl, anythin’.”

“A friend.” The confession was plaintive but Jazz did not seem to care. He smiled reassuringly at Prowl, and took Prowl’s servo in his and squeezed.

“Ya got one.”

“Friend, Two Bit.”

The beast moved aside. As the door closed behind them, Smokescreen raced over to Jazz and jumped up and down at his peds, waving his arms in the air. Glancing over at Prowl, glyphlessly asking permission, Jazz waited for Prowl’s nod before he lifted Smokescreen above his helm and spun him around. The sparkling’s laughter was like a clear bell. Prowl felt uplifted by the sound. When he was lowered back to the ground, Smokescreen snatched Jazz’s servo and led him to the blocks, to show off his project. Jazz sat, crossed legged next to the mechling and praised his work. It was so excessive, so over the top, and Smokescreen was thrilled with it. Jazz was not only Prowl’s friend, but Smokescreen’s and it meant everything. When Prowl sat down next to Smokescreen, opposite Jazz, his creation conscripted both adults to help him in his game. He could be a bossy little thing, but Jazz smiled, and went along with the sparkling’s instructions.

They played for joors. Jazz was so enthusiastic Prowl could not help but think that he would make a phenomenal procreator when he was ready. Smokescreen showed Jazz all of his toys, and insisted Jazz help him play with every one. When the time came for Prowl to make dinner, Jazz kept Smokescreen occupied. Prowl took a container of energon dumplings from the fuel containment unit, as well as oil broth. He put them in a pot together, along with chunks of ore and crystal. There was no need to season the broth. As the soup was a comfort fuel of his, Prowl always made a large batch of broth to store, as well as trays upon trays of dumplings. When the soup had heated, Jazz carried Smokescreen into the kitchen and helped him wash up. Smokescreen, more than half in love with Jazz, obeyed him far more readily that he did his originator. Prowl retrieved his creation and set him in his highchair with a bowl of soup, and a spoon. Two Bit laid down at the base of the chair, prepared for the windfall that would be coming his way.

“Please stay,” Prowl said. “There is more than enough.”

“It looks good,” Jazz replied, and he took a seat across from Prowl.

“I have not found a commercial broth that has quite the right flavours. Whenever I run low, I make a vat, as well as dumplings, to save for when I am need of a little comfort.”

“Do ya do a lot o’ cookin’ from scratch?”

“No, not really. Soups, and some baking. I am really not a particularly good cook. To my good fortune, Smokescreen has not hit that picky stage. Yet.”

“It is good,” Jazz said after he took a scoop. “I like cooking. Ric eats a lot at the bar when he’s workin’ so I really don’t do much of it. Seems like a waste to do it just for myself.”

“I never cooked before I moved here. My procreators employ a staff. They have particular tastes.”

“Do ya miss it? Havin’ mechanisms to take care o’ that for ya?”

“No. I would rather do it for myself. I like cleaning. I like keeping my own home.”

“It’s a good lookin’ home.”

Jazz lingered as Smokescreen played a little more after dinner. He lingered as Jazz took Smokescreen to the washracks for a quick path before he put his creation down for recharge. When Smokescreen demanded three stories, Prowl did not resist. Still, Smokescreen did not settle until Prowl held him to his chassis and hummed his special lullaby. Prowl lowered his creation into the berth, and tucked him in. It pleased him when he saw Jazz in the living room, sitting on the couch, waiting. Prowl sat next to him. Two Bit clamoured up and stretched out. His helm rested on Prowl’s lap, and his back end on Jazz. The Polihexian gave Two Bit a little rub and the cyber dog moaned his thanks.

“Thank you for staying.”

“Ya said ya needed a friend.”

“My procreators were here,” Prowl said, and he tugged at the blanket still hanging over his doorwings. It should have been embarrassing to be seen walking around with a security blanket, but it was not. At least it was not with Jazz. “I sent them a picture of Smokescreen playing with Two Bit in the park. He looked so sweet. I thought they would appreciate it. They tracked me down. I should have known they would. I should have known the sliver of green space would be enough for them to narrow it down.”

“Ya think they followed ya?”

“Maybe, but unlikely. They might have knocked on every door in the district but it is more likely that they guessed by its proximity that I was registered with the university. In which case they likely hacked the servo and stole my address. I should have taken an assumed designation.”

“That’s terrifying. They could do that?”

“My originator is the director of Praxian Secret Service. My progenitor works in military intelligence. They are more than capable.”

“‘M so sorry.

“I was feeling good. I was feeling capable. They stole it. I will never feel safe here again.”

“Ya think they’ll come back?”

“Possibly. More likely, they will file a report with Sparkling Protective Services and claim I am incapable of caring for Smokescreen. If they have not already, they will probably file a motion in the Hall for guardianship of Smokescreen, if not of me.”

“That’s fraggin’ wrong.”

“They do not believe I am capable of good judgment. They do not believe I am capable of making choices for myself, let alone Smokey. If they had their way, I would be sitting in a rocking chair in a pretty little room, staring out the window as the vorns passed.”

“Ya are. Ya know ya are.”

“I do not recognize them. I do not recognize what they want me to be. They raised me to live in defiance of my glitch. They raised me to believe I was capable of anything if only I worked for. But they do not actually believe it. It was a lie.”

“Frag them. Ya are capable. Ya prove it every mega-cycle. Smokescreen don’t want for nothin’. Ya keep a nice home. Ya get great grades.”

“I am always going to crash.”

“‘N ya always get back up. Don’t let’em get in yer helm, Prowl. Y’re stronger than they can see.”

“I am terrified that they will take Smokescreen from me.”

“‘N if they do, y’ll fight’em ‘n win.”

“I do not have your confidence.”

“Ain’t that ease to take a bitty away from a procreator. Any SPS caseworker would be thrilled to see a habsuite neat as this. Smokey’s healthy, ‘n clean, ‘n smart as all scrap. A glitch ain’t ‘cause enough to take’m away from ya.”

“You sound very confident.”

“I seen a lot o’ sparklings who shoulda been taken ‘n weren’t. Some that got taken ‘n got sent right back into the Pit. It really ain’t that easy. Sometimes it goes wrong but ya got a good case to support yerself, Prowl. Y’re doin’ a great job takin’ care o’ Smokey. Y’re doin’ a great job takin’ care o’ yerself. They make ya feel small ‘n weak ‘cause they want to. Ya aren’t.”

“Thank you.”

***

Jazz had barely closed the door behind him when he heard the knocked. Ric gave him a look. He saw the scowl on his brother’s faceplate, and leaned back in the couch to give himself a better look at the door. They had not been subtle, at least not to him. Though he had not seen their root modes Jazz had no doubt that the mechanisms that had tailed him from Prowl’s habsuite were Prowl’s procreators. Sacks of scrap. He let them knock, and let them stew. When Ricochet started to stand, Jazz shook his helm. Not yet. Let them stew a little longer. Through the thin door, he could hear one course in a dialect he did not speak, but the tone made it clear that the glyphs were not complimentary. While he might have been tempted to leave them standing there all dark-cycle, Jazz was not keen on having the enforcers called. He and Ric might have been living on a straight line now, it had not always or even often been the case. Though they had played out their criminal lives in Polihex, you never really knew where a ghost of a passed life might pop up. When he felt like their hackles had gotten nice and high, Jazz threw open the door.

“I don’t give a frag what ya have to say,” he declared, not giving them the chance to introduce themselves. “I know exactly who ya cogsuckers are.”

“You...”

“Eat slag.” Jazz did not much care which of Prowl’s procreators his was scraptalking. They both deserved it. “Ya come here to bribe me? Come here to try ‘n twist me against ‘m, well tough slag ‘cause it ain’t happenin’. I won’t help ya take that sweet bitty away from his origin.”

“Are you facing him?” Prowl took after this white and black Praxian the most. Though their kibble and builds were still quite different. Jazz flared his plating at the question. He watched both Praxians optics as the looked into the dive he and Ricochet shared and Jazz knew he was being judged. Arrogant sacks of slag. Let them judge. He did not care what the likes of these mechanisms thought of him.

“Even if I was it would be none of yer fraggin’ business.”

“You do not...” The gold-faced Praxian glowered down at him. Oh this one might have been Prowl’s originator. He carried himself like a mech who expected total obedience.

“I know enough. I know that last thing Prowl needs is to have ya lock’em up in a room to rust. Don’t matter if the fixin’ are first century, a prison is a prison. He don’t need ya. He’s better off wit’out ya wit’in a kilometre o’m. Ya think he ain’t got the processor to even decide what he’s gonna eat. Get fragged.”

“I know what my creation is capable of,” the gold-faced one hissed.

“No, ya don’t. Ya don’t know Prowl. ‘N ya sure as slag don’t _see’m._ So why don’t ya get lost? Might be fun to be the one to comm the enforcers for a change.”

Jazz slammed the door and secured the deadbolt for good measure. As his twin watched him, Jazz stalked over to the cabinet, grabbed the decanter of Tarnian whisky and poured himself a generous glass. He knocked it back in one gulp and slammed it down on the counter. Ricochet frowned at him, and Jazz snarled. It had taken everything in him to stop himself from jamming his fist into their smug faceplates, but they had seemed like exactly the type to press charges, and if he was going to help Prowl, Jazz needed to play... well not nice but law abiding. As he clenched his servos, Jazz imagined knocking their helms together, if not to knock some sense into them, at least to dent their swollen egos. They were so righteous. They believed so much in their vision of Prowl that they did not care about anything else, including Prowl.

“Y’re awfully invested in that mech,” Ricochet observed.

“I don’t like yer tone.”

“All ‘m sayin’ is ya look prime to take up the sword for a mech ya barely know.”

“So?”

“So don’t ya think y’re bitin’ off a bit much? Mech’s got a sparklin’ ‘n more baggage than Cybertron Rail.”

“Ain’t fair o’ ya to judge a mech ya ain’t e’er met.”

“‘M not judgin’m. ‘M warnin’ ya. This ain’t yer battle.”

“It is now.”

“There’s just no talkin’ sense into ya when ya get like this.”

“Shut up, Ric. I didn’t punch those fraggers ‘cause I knew they’d call the enforcers. Ain’t scared to ring yer helm.”

“Try it, Jazzy.”


	6. Peace

With the spectre of his procreators hanging over his helm, Prowl found himself on edge in his own home. Every peds step walking passed his door sent his spark into an arrhythmia. He did not dare let Two Bit “free” nearly so often as normal. His procreators had stolen his peace and Prowl hated them for it. Though he considered it, Prowl did not begin a habsuite hunt. There were more reasons to remain than to move, not the least of all was his contract with the property manager. While he could break the contract, Prowl did not relish paying the penalty. The settlement the Institute paid him could be stretch quite far, Prowl was nowhere close to tapping it, but he needed it to last for vorns. What was invested, Prowl largely pretended did not exist. It was Smokescreen college fund. Polaris had spoken passionately about making regular contributions to such a fund. He had been excited to be progenitor, and he had thought vorns ahead. Prowl had found it fitting to earmark a significant portion of the settlement to Smokescreen’s education. It had made taking the settlement feel a little less like mechfluid shanix.

The trust fund his originator had mentioned had been set up when he had been a mechling. It had not been filled with his procreator’s shanix but that of his grandprocreators. But they had been, and still remained the administrators. At the time it had been created, his kin had not know what his life might look like, they had not known how the glitch would affect him. The conditions had never been changed, whether by his grandprocreators’ will or his procreators, Prowl could not say. Prowl had never seen reason to access it, and it had been a point of pride to let it sit. Though his career of choice had not met his procreators lofty plans for him, it had been enough. His and Polaris’ combined incomes had been plenty enough to live more that just comfortably. They had come from different castes. Though they had never said as much, Prowl guessed this was where his procreators’ resistance to the match had lain. Polaris had been a lawyer, a considerably more impressive career to their ilk than his own. They had never spoken down to Polaris, because they had never spoken to him. As they had not recognized him as Prowl’s intended, he had never been welcomed into their home.

Polaris had emerged into a working class family, the of his line to attend university. Prowl had emerged into an old family with connections to the government going back millenia. They had been dubious of Polaris for reason Prowl had assumed came down to nothing but caste. Polaris’ procreators had supported them in their decision to take the common bond route. Prowl had liked them, though he had felt terribly uncomfortable around them. They would have been doting grandprocreators’ to Smokescreen. But the shame and the shock of Polaris acts had destroyed them, and they had not lived more than a few stellar-cycles. He wished they had at least lived long enough to hear his designation cleared. It had not been Polaris’ fault. It had not been his choice. It had not been through any fault of theirs or his upbringing. It had been the result of sloppy needle work. Nothing else.

Prowl paced as Two Bit watched on. His dark-cycle had been restless. Jazz would be coming over in a joor to work on their project. They had to get to work on it, or risk both their grades. If he had been working alone, Prowl might have been tempted to put it off a few more mega-cycles, but he did not want to risk Jazz’s marks. Perhaps once they got to work, he might be able to forget a little while the foreboding he was feeling. Even if his processor was not on school, Prowl was more than a little happy for the excuse to have Jazz’s company. He wondered and he worried that his procreators were watching. What would they think of Jazz? Considering the first Polihexian war was a rebellion against Praxian dominion, Prowl would not have been surprised to find out his procreators had a strong bias against Jazz’s framekin. Of course, they would conceal it well, as they had concealed the level of their disdain for Polaris.

Would the jump to the obvious conclusion? Jazz had left late, well after Prowl had tucked Smokescreen in. They had shared a vial of engex, and Jazz had listened as Prowl had told him about Polaris. It had been such a blessing to be able to speak of his creation’s progenitor in fond remembrance, without such speech earning him a rebuke. It felt good to speak up Polaris, and to know neither he nor his lost love were being judged for the acts of just that one dark-cycle. As they relaxed, Jazz had told him a little about his family. Only he and his twin had escaped the desperate poverty of Polihex. They still lived in poverty, or Prowl suspected this was the case from the way Jazz spoke. Ricochet worked in a bar. He had followed Jazz to Iacon after Jazz had earned a full ride scholarship. Without such a scholarship, Ricochet could not afford to attend university himself. Even with the scholarship, Jazz worked odd jobs to supplement his share of the bills. Mostly, he had exclaimed, he had gigs singing at the bar. Prowl had bitten his glossa to keep from asking Jazz to sing from him. But he was horribly curious. Unfortunately, even if Prowl dared ask Jazz the name of the bar, he could not bring Smokescreen with him, and Prowl would not leave his creation with a stranger.

“Ow wow oof,” Two Bit sang before the knock at the door even came. From the way his tail thumped against the couch, Prowl did not believe this was his procreators. Still, he checked the camera, and saw Jazz smiling back at him. Prowl smiled too. He was still smiling when he opened the door.

“Heya Prowl, I brought lunch,” Jazz said as he held up a bag. Then he held up another. “‘N somethin’ for Two Bit.”

“You need not have,” Prowl said, but he smiled, he could hardly hope to help it. The funny thrill in his spark came and went. First Jazz had done him and Smokescreen a kindness, now he was doing one for his cyber dog. Prowl had no immunity to this sort of thing. “Thank you. Two Bit, Free.”

“Rumf,” Two Bit slowly climbed off the couch. Stretching his front legs to the floor and slowly dragging himself forward. He cocked his helm at Jazz as the Polihexian waved the bag and trotted over. From the bag, Jazz pulled out a long twisted bar. Two Bit wagged his whole body as he took it from Jazz’s servo with exquisite care.

“I believe you have made a friend for life.”

“I hope so.”

Prowl felt thrilling little flush of pleasure. But he set it aside, and turned his focus to the Clavis Aurea, the ancient religious sect that was the focus of their assignment. Smokescreen was quick to join them, though he could not have cared less about their discussion, and their work. He made Jazz stop to bounce him on his knee. For his part, Jazz seemed to enjoy catering to Smokescreen’s whims, and Prowl fell a little in love with the mech for the way he indulged Smokescreen. Despite Smokescreen’s demands, and the distraction he quite merrily made, they made good head way on the assignment. Together they had laid out a plan for their research, and they had divided the work going forward so they could work independently. Though Prowl would not complain about Jazz coming over even more often. When Smokescreen fell into recharge on Prowl’s lap, he considering putting his creation down, but he was comfortable enough on the couch, and with his procreators and their plots lurking in the shadows, he was happy to hold Smokescreen for however long he napped.

“I figure I outta tell ya somethin’,” Jazz said after he returned from Prowl’s kitchen, having brewed them both pressed energon.

“Oh?” Prowl felt a keen sense of foreboding.

“Yer procreators followed me home.”

“Of course they did,” Prowl pressed a servo against his face. “I am sorry, Jazz.”

“Don’t apologize for’em. Fact that they’re sacks of slag ain’t on ya. Anyways, I told’em to get fragged.”

“I cannot imagine they were pleased.”

“Didn’t look it.”

“Thank you, Jazz.”

“I know ya don’t need me fightin’ no battles for ya, but I’ll tell a judge just how amazin’ I think ya are wit that bitlet if it comes to that.”

“It means a great deal that you would want to.”

Prowl was preparing a snack for Smokescreen as Jazz relaxed on the couch when he received a comm from Oiler. The femme reported, with no small amount of relief, that Swivel had finally been released. What had looked like a simple concussion had proven to be a cracked helm plate, and a great deal of dented plating. Prowl was relieved to know he was well enough to go home. The florist was a dear mechanism to him. He was caught off guard by what Oiler said next. They were at the shop, her procreator and her, and Swivel wanted to see him as soon as he could. Some strange mechs had come to see him, almost as soon as he had arrived home from the medicentre. No one needed to tell Prowl who those strangers had been, and he blinked back angry tears. What had they said? What sort of lies and half truths had they told?

“Somethin’ wrong, Prowl?” Jazz asked. Prowl froze.

“My procreators did not even allow Swivel to sit down after being released to interrogate him about me,” he wiped his face. He was so tired, and so angry. They were determined to run him into the ground.”

“That mech’s got nothin’ bad to say ‘bout ya, Prowl.”

“He wants to see me. At the shop.”

“If ya want me, I’ll walk wit ya.”

“Please.”

It was not a peaceful walk. Prowl held the handle of Smokescreen’s stroller with so much force he might have dented it. There was no laughter, and no small talk. Jazz walked on his right as Two Bit walked on his left. They both scanned the horizon, looking for the same faceplates Prowl was. Neither Downshift nor Camshaft appeared on the path. Of course that did not mean they were not watching. They probably were. Thinking this, and feeling this, Prowl wanted to scream. He wanted to scream until his voice was hoarse. He wanted to demand he leave them in peace. But he would look mad if he did that, and so Prowl bit his glossa. Jazz’s field brushed over his, filled with promise. Prowl nodded his helm, he did not trust himself to speak. When they turned the corner and the shop came into view, Prowl’s spark sank lower and lower as fear and dread bloomed within him. The contractor’s team had replaced the broken door. From the outside, the shop looked like itself, though the shop’s open sign was off. A servo written sign explaining the closure was affixed to the new door. Oiler spotted them through the window, and came to the door, pulling it open. She greated him with a sympathetic smile.

“Your procreators are pompous afts. You have my sympathies.”

“Thank you... They have proven to be difficult.”

“They can’t imagine facing what you have Prowl, and living,” Swivel declared from his stool. “They don’t have that kind of strength, so they can’t see it in you.”

“How are you feeling, Sir.”

“Like I’m going to go crazy with this femmeling hovering over me before the orn’s out. I’ll be fine within the quartex, Prowl. Thanks to you.”

“You protected my creation.”

“Enforcers always tell you to give these goons what they want. I tried that. But he figured I must’ve been hiding the good scrap in the back. I didn’t want to chance it. I couldn’t let him close to your sweetling.”

“Thank you. I will be indebted to you all my life.”

“We’re even, Prowl. You saved this old mech’s life. Oiler told you we had visitors.”

“She did. I am so sorry they disturbed you.”

“I told them what I think of you, and what I think of them. I told them you’re a fine mech and a fine origin. I told them you’re the best help I’ve had in the shop in a long time. I told them I’d dealt with mechanisms like them for a long time. They look down their olfactory ridges at the makers and the doers but they fill their homes with the beautiful thinks mechanisms like us make. I told them they didn’t deserve you, and that I hope you’ll take over my shop one ‘cycle.”

“Swivel...”

“It’s the truth. We talked some, I know, but I’d like to say more. Oiler would have me move to Altihex next-cycle but I want to chose my ‘cycle and my time. End of the vorn, I’ll move. Not before. I have old friends and old clients I’ve worked with for vorns, and I’m not ready to say good-bye just yet. I’m in no rush to sell, Prowl. But I’ll need someone to run the shop after I’ve moved. Someone who loves crystals, and who can keep making beautiful things after I’ve moved on.”

“You want me to manage the shop.”

“You’ve got a lot on your plate, and maybe I’m adding more. I’ll admit I’m a bit bossy, and when I think I’m right, well Oiler can tell you how bull-helmed I get. I’ve put a lot of love into this place. I’d like to see it in the servos who can love it like I have.”

“Thank you. I really do not know what to say.”

“Just think about it, Prowl. Think about what bring you joy, and what brings you peace. I’m going anywhere just yet. You’ve got time to decide.”

Prowl could agree to that. He nodded, and then said his goodbyes. Swivel was doing well considering the severity of his helm injury, but he was clearly tired, and Oiler was vocal in her belief that he needed to follow the medic’s orders and lay down and rest. Prowl pushed Smokescreen out of the shop, feeling an odd mix of excitement and terror. He wanted it. Jazz reached and squeezed his servo where Prowl clung to the handle of Smokescreen’s stroller. They would never accept it, Prowl thought of his procreators. And he wondered again if they were watching. A little shop with space in the back where Smokescreen could safely play as Prowl worked. Hundreds of beautiful crystals he could touch and choose. It would be a simple function. A safe one. One with no accolades or prestige. It sounded like a dream. He could spend his life making beautiful things to chase away his memory purges. And if the reality was not so appealing as the fantasy, Prowl would lose nothing. All he would need to do is give Swivel his regrets. So what had him frozen in place?

“Y’re hearin’ their voices in y’re helm,” Jazz said, as if he had read Prowl’s processor.”

“They did not want me to be an enforcer. They thought I was limiting my potential.”

“Ya were a good copbot.”

“I was.”

“I bet ya’d make a great florist.”

“You are biased.”

“Sure. Don’t mean ‘m wrong. Why don’t we celebrate?”

“What are we celebrating?”

“New opportunities.”

Jazz would not let Prowl pay for the oil shakes, or pay him back for the lunch he had brought over earlier. They were celebrating him, Jazz declared. It would not be right if he paid. Prowl shied a little at the praise but it felt so good to hear it, and it felt even better to be the focus of Jazz’s brilliant smile. What did he have to lose? His course load was not especially heavy. Having learned his limits in previous semesters, Prowl only had three classes. He could help Swivel in the shop, as he needed, if he needed. He could learn both the art and the shop from the old master without overworking himself too much. After a few quartexes, Prowl would have a better idea if this was really the path for him to walk. As it was, Prowl already knew that he wanted it to be so. It was a clear path, more than he had had at the beginning of the quartex. Prowl did not need to ask himself again what he hoped to do with himself, because he knew. After they finished the shakes, Jazz walked Prowl home, carrying Smokescreen on his shoulders. Prowl’s spark was fluttering, and it was not just this new prospect to blame.

“Thank you... For this ‘cycle. For everything.”

“It’s been my pleasure,” Jazz said. “I like spendin’ time wit ya.”

“Oh.”

“I was hopin’ ya’d let me take ya out sometime.”

“You mean a date.”

“Yeah.”

“Oh... I cannot leave Smokescreen. I do not have it in me to trust a sitter.”

“I’d love to have Smokey along, Two Bit too. I know y’re a package deal, Prowl. I like the whole package.”

“I would love to go out with you Jazz.”

“Sweet,” Jazz said. He took a step forward, and Prowl knew what he wanted, and wanted it too. Prowl tilted his helm as Jazz leaned in and they shared a brief, soft kiss. Prowl’s spark flared as they stepped apart. He did not bring his digits to touch his lips, but it was tempting. Jazz blessed him with another brilliant smile. “I’ll comm ya, Prowl. Be good for y’re origin, Smokey.”

Prowl held Smokescreen as his creation waved an enthusiastic goodbye. When Jazz had driven out of sight, Prowl turned towards his building and skipped up the steps with Two Bit at his side. Smiling like a fool, he nuzzled his creation. If his procreators were watching, he did not care. This time, they could not steal his peace.


	7. Revelation

He was happy. Prowl smiled as he slipped a thin teal apatite cutting into the growing medium that served as the base for his arrangement. There were good odds that whichever customer purchased the arrangement would not recognize its meaning in the crystals Prowl had chosen, but that did not trouble him in the least. Every arrangement Prowl had made in the previous mega-cycles had a message to convey, that was always his way. Swivel was in Altihex over the Saltus break, visiting his grandcreations through his mechling, Slide. Oiler had been staying with him all this time, she was finally going home to resume her studies. With the shop only newly reopened after Swivel’s unexpectedly long recovery, he had not been keen to close so quickly, even for only two orns. Prowl had offered to spend the break, running the shop for him. Swivel had been ecstatic. Though Prowl had some homework to do over the break, he found time for it between arrangements, and in the evenings after he had returned home.   
Swivel’s most regular customers had become familiar with his presence, Prowl had assisted Swivel every ornend from the orn he had returned to work. Some were genial, others were not. Some looked at Two Bit and demanded Prowl restrain his beast. Prowl, of course, did not. They were welcome to leave if his service mechanimal made them uncomfortable, but he needed the cyber-dog at his side, and so Two Bit had free range of the shop. One customer in particular had been affronted by Prowl’s refusal to lock Two Bit in the back, and had demanded what Prowl was going to do to ensure his pair of little cyber dogs did not come to harm. Prowl had replied with the truth. Two Bit could not have cared less about their presence, but if the customer could not control his microhounds, that Prowl would ask him to leave them outside. Whatever those customers thought, Two Bit hardly acknowledged they were there. He too was working, and Two Bit had a strong work ethic.

Whether it was love, a plea for forgiveness, or as with the one he was just now finishing, well wishes, Prowl’s arrangements all said something to those understood the language of crystals. After securing the last crystal, Prowl placed a little a card in the arrangement saying: Best Wishes. He smiled at the arrangement. It looked cleaner, the spacing was better. Since working with Swivel so often, Prowl’s work had improved. At the end of the mega-cycles, Prowl was tired. It was a great deal of work to fill orders, as well as keep the displays stocked, the shop clean, and Smokescreen happy and entertained, but Prowl loved it. He truly loved it. Already he was thinking ahead to the next vorn. Prowl did not known yet if he would take the next semester online, or if he would take time off school a he tried his servo at managing Swivel’s shop. All Prowl knew with any certainty was how much he wanted to stay here.

“Hey, Gorgeous,” Jazz called out as he entered the shop. For the fourth mega-cycle in a row he had come to join Prowl, lunch in his servo. Prowl felt the same thrill he always felt when Jazz appeared. A part of him was afraid to let himself love again, but the greater part accepted that there was no stopping himself. Jazz was too good to Prowl for the Praxian to be able to resist the tug on his spark.

“Hello, Jazz.”

Prowl greeted his... companion with a kiss, and his frame flushed as Jazz’s servo settled low on his back, holding him close as their kiss stretched on. His frame remembered the way Jazz’s digits had plucked at his sensors just dark-cycles before. They had not interfaced yet but Jazz had brought Prowl to overload, with his servos, as they had lain on the couch together. He wanted. Not here, no Prowl was not quite that daring, but soon. As Jazz moaned into this kiss and his servo curled into Prowl’s back, the Praxian thought he had communicated his desires quite clearly enough in his field. They separated, with some regret on Prowl’s part, and Jazz called him a minx. Prowl smiled with a hint of mischief. In the last quartexes he had begun to come alive again, and so much of the credit lay with Jazz.To his surprise, Prowl’s procreators had not appeared again after their encounter with Swivel. That did not mean they were not close. Prowl did not dare open his spark enough to them to know. He did his best not to think of them, though fear of them lingered in the back of his processor. Sparkling Protective Services had yet to appear at his door, but Prowl continued to maintain a level of cleanliness that was no doubt a little overboard. Rather than tut at him, Jazz had taken it upon himself to help whenever he was over, and he had taught Smokescreen a cleaning song and now Prowl’s sweet creation sang it whenever he helped clean. He also sang it whenever he was making a mess, but his enthusiasm still made Prowl feel light and warm. 

“I love ya,” Jazz said as he brushed a kiss along Prowl’s cheek, and left their lunch on the counter.

“Jazz...” Prowl’s response was caught on his glossa as the bell rang, announcing the appearance of a customer. Jazz turned, face certainly flushed. It faded quickly. The newcomer was Praxian, or at least Praxian enough to attain citizenship, and he wore enforcer insignia that labelled him as metaforensics. The same department Prowl had captained only a few vorns ago.

“Captain Prowl?” The enforcer asked. Prowl shook his helm as he summoned Two Bit to his side. He stroked his service mechanimal’s back in a bit to calm the frantic spin of his spark. Jazz’s servo was on his back. The pressure light, another comfort and strength Prowl could lean on.

“I am not,” Prowl shook his helm again when he was able to trust his vocalizer enough to answered. “Not anymore... I am Prowl. I am only Prowl.”

“Understood. I’m Inspector Nightbeat from Metaforensics in Praxus. I have some questions for you... Prowl. Is there a place we can sit?”

“I’ll locked the door, Prowl. ‘Sposed to be y’re break anyways.”

  
Prowl nodded glyphlessly as Jazz placed the sign on the door advising the shop would reopen in a joor. He did not know what the enforcer wanted with him, and he feared. Seeing Smokescreen napping in the cot Swivel had provided, Prowl pulled the stools from behind the counter, and sat. Two Bit dropped his helm into Prowl’s lap, and his owner stroked his floppy audials with slow, and measured strokes. Enforcer Nightbeat took a seat but he did not say anything. He looked across the counter and watched for Jazz to return. A part of Prowl wanted to snap, to tell him to get on with it, he had already stolen Prowl’s peace for this mega-cycle. How had the enforcer known to find him here? What was he after? What was he waiting for? Jazz came around the counter, and stood at Prowl’s back, and placed his servos on Prowl’s shoulders. The Praxian leaned into him.

“You are familiar with the case Polaris of Praxus was working on prior to the... Incident?”

“Yes. He was lead prosecutor in a drug and mecha-trafficking ring operated by the Cobalt Syndicate. The judge through out the case when it was discovered that the raid on the syndicate’s bar was launch before the warrant came in. Polaris was trying to rebuilt the case when he died.”

“We recently had a breakthrough, and the case is going to trial at the beginning of next stellar-cycle.”

“Polaris would be pleased.”

“During the investigation we developed some informants, and we discovered a conspiracy involving Polaris.”

“He was not working for the mob,” Prowl snapped, optics flashy an icy blue. 

“I know. We uncovered a bribe paid to his medic, the one that referred him to the Institute.”

“Oh Primus.”

“We found another paid out to a mnemosurgeon working there.”

“Stylor.”

“Actually... no. It appears he was framed. We discovered he’d had false memories implanted. He didn’t perform the mnemosurgery on Polaris.”

“I do not understand.”

“Have you ever known a mech designated Chromedome?”

“Chromedome? I knew him as Tumbler. He was my partner in metaforensics for vorns.”

“Through account records we discovered he also accepted a bribe from the syndicate, and the referral from Polaris’ family medic.”

“No. Oh no. Oh no.”

Prowl moaned. There was a blinding pain behind his optics as Nightbeat’s revelation struck home. He and Tumbler had been more that partners. When Camshaft and Downshift had discovered his indiscretion they had thrown a fit. But Prowl had ignored their complaints. It had been vorns since he had lived in their home, or had allowed them to dictate his life. When Tumbler had asked to bond, Prowl had refused, but it had not been his procreators’ protests who had seen Prowl give this answer. While he had been happy enough with their arrangement, Prowl had not felt anything like the find of love that would see him want a bond. It had been Tumbler’s idea to frag, to work out the stress of the job with each other. It had been he who had called them friends with benefits. Their arrangement had immediately dissolved after Prowl’s refusal and Tumbler had been cold to Prowl until he had quit the enforcers to study metaforensics, something that had always fascinated him. Downshift had revealed later that Tumbler had taken a bribe from them, payment to see him leave. His progenitor had used this as a mark against Prowl’s judgment when they had protested his plans to bond to Polaris. 

“No. No.” He moaned again. 

“There won’t be a trial. We have a confession. He’s going to serve a long time in spark containment after he testifies against the syndicate.”

“What did he say? What did he say?”

“Polaris had refused bribes from the syndicate, I’m sure you were aware. They’d used mnemosurgery to make allies out of enemies before. It was Chromedome’s first time taking a job with them. Their preferred mnemosurgeon had disappeared awhile back. You’d investigated the case.”

“Trepan.”

“That’s right. They paid him to turn Polaris to their side, but Chromedome found the surgery difficult. Polaris had a strong processor. Instead of altering his personality, Chromedome implanted a command, and then covered his tracks with a few strokes of his needles.”

“He intended for Polaris to kill me.”

“No... the newling you were carrying at the time was the target.”

It was too much. Prowl keened. His arms seized as he pulled his servos up to his face. The keen only cut off as his vocalizer shorted as Prowl’s frame shuddered violently. He fell from the stool, but he did not fall. Smokescreen cried. Two Bit pressed his great bulk against Prowl’s chassis, and whined, but Prowl could not reach for either of them. Darkness reached up to take him, and Prowl surrendered to it. It hurt too much to fight. When the surge guards in his processor tripped, the final threads of Prowl’s consciousness fell away and Prowl’s frame went limp.

As consciousness returned, Prowl felt himself being cradled in in someone’s arms. A cold compress was draped over his browridge, and Prowl sighed as the cool clothe eased the throb that persisted in his helm. As Prowl turned his helm against the shoulder he was resting against, he onlined his optics, with some effort. They flickered before Prowl was able to keep them engaged. Jazz’s face filled his vision. The Polihexian’s visor was missing, revealing white optics. Against Prowl’s chassis, Smokescreen shifted and he stood up in his originator’s lap, cooing sweetly. Prowl wrapped his arm around Smokescreen’s little waist as his other servo rested on Two Bit’s helm.

“Owie, Oh Oh?”

“Yes, Smokescreen,” Prowl replied. “I am sorry, Sweetspark, if I scared you.”

“I kiss it better.” Smokescreen reached up to kiss his originator between his optics.

“Thank you, Bitlet. Jazz, you caught me.”

“I couldn’t let ya fall. Enforcer Nightbeat wants to talk more but I told him to make ‘mself scarce this ‘cycle.”

“Thank you. I... I cannot. It is memory purge I cannot escape. It was so cruel. Polaris was so excited to be a progenitor. It was such a wicked and twisted thing to do.”

“Spark containment’s too good for ‘m,” Jazz declared and Prowl nodded as he sagged back into Jazz’s arms. He was too weak, and to brittle to sit upright. Jazz kissed the corner of Prowl’s optic, and Prowl leaned turned his helm into Jazz’s neck. 

“What happened do your visor?”

“Ya caught me wit a doorwing.”

“I am so sorry, I will replace it.”

“I got spares, Prowl. It’s no big deal.”

“You are too understanding.”

“Nah. Ya didn’t do it on purpose. How ya feelin’?”

“Like broken glass. I would understand if this is too much, Jazz. I am grateful you have done all you have for us.”

“I love ya, Prowl. ‘N I love Smokey. ‘N I love Two Bit for what he does for ya. ‘M mech enough to hold ya while ya mourn. Polaris was Smokey’s ‘genitor. He’s always gonna be a part o’ ya. ‘M not scared to live alongside his memory.”

“I love you, Jazz. Please do not let me go.”

“Lemme take ya home, Prowl.” Jazz brushed another kiss against his helm. “Y’ll feel better there.”

Prowl nodded. Jazz was right, Prowl would feel safer at home, certainly it would be more comfortable than the floor. Though he was stable enough, Jazz commed a transport to take them home, rather than subject them to a walk, and Prowl was grateful. He did not know how Nightbeat had found him, but he had his suspicions. If his procreators were watching, Prowl did not want them to see his vulnerability. It was another layer of pain, knowing his procreators were as more likely to take advantage of his weakness than to offer him comfort, or even anger. Jazz carried Smokescreen as they left the store from the back. Prowl held tight to Two Bit’s harness, but he did not fear another crash. Though he was aching and sparkbroken, Jazz had given him comfort and strength. 

  
There was a sign up on the front door, written in Jazz’s neat scroll: closed, sorry for the inconvenience.

  
The Convoy brought them home. Though Prowl did not need to lean on Two Bit to keep his peds, his service mechanimal’s presence at his side was a comfort. So was Jazz’s servo against his back. It was not infantalizing, this care and this touch. He believed Prowl was strong, but he did not believe that he was the source of Prowl’s strength. Prowl was grateful that this mech had stepped into their lives. And he was greedy because he wanted to bury himself in Jazz’s arms and hide there for a while. As he locked the door, both with his encryption and the deadbolt, Prowl’s shoulders slumped. It had been easier believing that Polaris’ actions had been the result of a careless accident. It was horrifying to know that it had been a malicious act, meant specifically to hurt Prowl. At one point, he had trusted Tumbler with his life. Tumbler had fully intended for him to live through the murder of his newspark.

“What do ya need, Prowl.”

“Will you hold me again?”

“For as long as ya need.”

“The berth would be more comfortable. Two Bit has been spoiled since you tucked him in with me.”“He does ya good.”

“So do you.”

The revelation had changed nothing for Smokescreen. His life had not been changed beyond the act of that dark-cycle. But he understood his originator was suffering and it made him anxious. He relaxed completely when Jazz carried him into his originator’s berthroom, and they all laid down together. Two Bit stretched out across the foot of the berth as Prowl laid halfway on his side, and halfway on his chassis and rested his helm on Jazz’s bumper. Smokescreen flopped on Jazz’s abdomen, and curled up under Prowl’s outstretched arm. It was well passed his naptime. Though recharge had not been Prowl’s plan for himself, as his creation drifted off, and listening to the pleasant hum of Jazz’s systems, soon Prowl recharged as well. He did not recharge long, but when he onlined, it was peaceful. Jazz's servo was covering Prowl's where it lay over Smokescreen's back. Prowl smiled as he tilted his helm to look up at Jazz's face. His... Jazz's optics were dimmed. His intakes were smooth. Their even rhythm lulled Prowl's helm back down. He would recharge a little longer comfortable in the knowledge that he was in the arms of one who both respected and loved him.

AN: So this is it! Prowl Week is done. I could add more to this, if there is interest. I thought about doing a Jazz week that continue with their journey. Let me know if this is something you want to see.


End file.
